


minor mendings

by twokinds



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 13:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twokinds/pseuds/twokinds
Summary: some things can't be fixed (doesn't mean Quentin won't try).





	minor mendings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renaissance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/gifts).



> for ao3 user renaissance. my partner in queliot and the person who came up with this fic's wonderful title.
> 
> this fic is currently running against all my academic work, attempting to win “how many commas can you fit into one sentence.”

Eliot can still feel the monster lurking beneath his skin. Scratching beneath the surface, sharp nails digging into muscle, dragging through sinew and bone. Sometimes Eliot wants to play a game, he can never remember those days.

Quentin promises the monster was gone. Julia had gotten her god powers back at some point and Margo had axes that could pull the devil out himself, but Eliot doesn’t believe it. He wonders if the monster is still out there, waiting for him. Eliot can feel the cracking of bones, smell the bitterness of dried blood. Eliot remembers the monster’s fear, the monster’s _hunger_. Promises mean nothing if he wakes up at night, sweating, screaming, and itching to find something that was once his (no, not his. The monster’s. Always the monster’s).

(Eliot confesses to Quentin one night; the world is shaking and groaning with a thunder storm and Eliot can’t sleep because the air coming through their open window smells too much like the day he wanted to play, only to find his sister buried beneath dirt and spells. No, not his sister. The monster’s; he doesn’t know what parts of him are _him_ and what parts of him are the monster.)

Eliot feels as though he’s hanging on the edge, somewhere between sanity and drinking yourself dead. Nothing unusual for him, he had recognized early on when his nightmares began, but this time he knows not even death can bring him peace.

He breaks. Something violent and vile stirs beneath him and he scratches. He scratches at his arms until mild marks turn into blood. Then he snaps and breaks. Lamps, glasses, whatever glass he can find breaks at his feet. Then there’s too much wine and not enough vodka and Eliot misses the Physical kid’s cottage and whatever fucked up concoction was going around that week but everyone he knew at Brakebills is fucking _dead_ and Eliot remembers what it’s like to take joy in murder. 

(Two months after he comes back, Eliot finds himself tucked against Alice with Julia lounging on the sofa chair next to them. They all had become friends, somehow, after it was all over. Julia had laughed the first time they talked, had called their triage “A support group for gods and former niffins.”

Eliot asks, between sips of tea, mid-western drawl coming out lazily, “How did you deal? Being human one minute and the next minute a magic hotspot?” 

Julia and Alice both answer the same, “Didn’t, couldn’t, then I got addicted.”

“I miss it,” Alice adds, curling her hand over Eliot’s thigh and shifting to get as close to him as she can, like he can hide the shame in her confession.

 “I remember,” Eliot muses. “I remember being able to make things tumble with the snap of my fingers. My sister had called me reckless and brilliant. She was always so proud of the things I could destroy.”

“Eliot,” Julia replies softly. “You don’t have a sister.”

Eliot stutters, “I-.”

When Alice gently drags Eliot’s head down into her lap, running her fingers through his hair, he lets her. He closes his eyes and pretends she can hide his shame too.)

Quentin finds him on the floor, bleeding from glass and anger, clothing torn and body shaking. Everything around him is a mess and Eliot wants to break _more_. He’s itching and he can still feel the monster lurking.

“Hey, hey,” Quentin slowly walks towards Eliot, glass crunching beneath his feet. “What happened, El?”

Quentin crouches in front of Eliot, taking his face gently in his hands. 

(Eliot remembers his hands around Quentin’s throat, the feel of tendons and delicate, delicate bone. Quentin is dying by his hand.)

“I-I’m-“ Eliot chokes on spit and fear.

(Quentin is gasping for breath, head bleeding from a minor wound caused when Eliot threw him onto the floor.)

Eliot grasps at Quentin’s hands, eyes wild and searching. “I break everything. I bre-I break _everything_. The monster is still _here_ , Q.” He laughs, brittle and empty. “Except this time the monster is me and I’m too lucid to hide behind a piss-poor excuse.”

(Quentin reaches up to him and promises everything is okay. That they will help him kill gods and then he and Eliot can play as many games as they like. Eliot wonders what he’d do if his body’s favourite people didn’t love him anymore.)

“No, no,” Quentin’s tone is grating in its assurance; he gently pries himself from Eliot’s hands, turns, and sits himself delicately next to Eliot.

“Did I ever show you what my discipline is?” Quentin asks. His hands move in familiar motions as all the broken shards and dust slowly rise. At one sharp move, everything Eliot broke mends itself together again like it had never met pain before. “Repairer of small objects,” Quentin huffs out, smiling. “Anything broken can be fixed again.”

(His sister is screaming, ugly in her horror, Eliot is terrified but Quentin remains steadfast by his side. Eliot is covered in dirt and blood and Quentin is holding his hand, quiet reassurance from a human who thinks touch is comfort; it is.) 

Eliot stares at him, a feeling of _wonder_ blooming in his chest; the last time he felt this warmth was when he first stepped into Brakebills.

(He remembers what it’s like to dig too-long fingers in his sister’s chest, pulling and pulling until he has another heart to add to his collection. Quentin remains silent.) 

Quentin stands up, tugging on Eliot’s arms, coaxing him to do the same. He takes them into the bathroom, sidestepping the newly repaired objects like it’s a dance. Quentin puts him in the bathtub, slowly removing Eliot’s clothing and any glass that managed to remain. Gently, he runs a wet cloth over Eliot’s body, stopping at every little cut to clear up any dried blood. 

“Alice told me that you still can’t shake off the monster’s memories,” Quentin says as he wraps a robe around Eliot, long after he had cleaned up every cut and bruise.

“That little-,” 

“Don’t be mad at her, I sort of forced her too. With the whole trying to prevent magic from coming back and you being possessed as a result. I know you guys function like AA.”

(Eliot doesn’t remember what happened after that. All he knows is that he woke up sobbing, a piece of him torn out crudely, and Margo cradling him, promising the monster is gone.) 

Eliot hangs his head low, giving Quentin the opportunity to towel his wet hair.  “He’s-I don’t know, Q. I’m terrified that even if he’s destroyed that a little bit of his viciousness stayed with me.”

Quentin stops what he’s doing and guides Eliot into their bedroom, onto the bed. He remains silent as he shifts them so that they are underneath the blanket and Eliot’s head is resting on top of his chest. Quentin curls an arm around him, bring Eliot completely flush against him.

“I can’t get rid of it. Whatever the monster did to you, it rightly fucked you up,” Quentin says, finally speaking. “But-” He hesitates. “But I’m here. I’m here for all your nightmares and to help you talk about them or forget them or whatever. And hell, if it turns out you need a little fixing, I do specialize in the repair of small objects.”

(It’s one month after the monster has been destroyed. Eliot misses him, just a little. He wonders if his sister is out there still, somehow, even after he ripped out her heart, or if she’s just recycled energy—her magic waiting for someone less destructive. Eliot doesn’t know what he wants most.)

Eliot laughs, this time something sincere. “Look at you, Quentin. My knight in shining armor, the boy who couldn’t growing up to be the boy who could. Whatchya got for me, fanboy? Going to fix my heart?”

“Yeah, yeah. If you need it. Peaches and plums, motherfucker.” 

(He doesn’t count the days anymore, since the monster was no longer a part of him. He still itches, from time to time. Memories of sweet ambrosia mix with Julia’s failed attempt at making a good cup of coffee; the bright open fields of Fillory interlace with laughter that comes with games only gods can play. When the previous-and-current-powerful-being gang talks again, Eliot confesses that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to tell him and the monster apart but maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.)

**Author's Note:**

> Alice, Julia, and Eliot meet once a week for coffee (or tea) to discuss whatever former and current magic powerhouses discuss. This week's discussion is: "Please get laid Alice. I know about eight women who'd be delighted to dick you down." "But..men?" "Oh shut up, neither of us care, just stop stress-eating through Eliot's sandwiches. Just because I'm a goddess doesn't mean I don't like eating."


End file.
